[usr 2.5]
An intimate look at the life and work of Greek-American opera singer, Maria Callas, as told in her own words.
“Music is too vast and deep to grasp in a language.” A sentiment spoken by the wondrous legend Maria Callas, and one I couldn’t agree with more. Whether it’s Puccini’s “Madama Butterfly” or “Norma” by Vincenzo Bellini, whether she was singing on a populated stage or by herself, there is little arguing that Callas was mysterious and otherworldly, and absolutely magnetic. Unfortunately, the same thing cannot be said of Tom Volf’s loving but spineless documentary about the world-famous opera star. Comprised entirely of archival footage and interviews with Callas, sometimes artistically rendered, one would be hard-pressed to blame it for a lack of passion – or great music – but it doesn’t function as a fleshed-out portrait of the artist. Don’t come in expecting a warts-and-all revelation.
There are some things revealed about her that newcomers may find interesting: Maria’s upbringing in New York and her Greek heritage, her relationships, her lifelong attempt to “reach the heavens” where “all is perfect harmony”; a few fascinating tidbits about her perspectives on life and love, her interview with journalist David Frost, and brief conversations with – or about – Grace Kelly, Fanny Ardant, Vittorio De Sica, Pier Paolo Pasolini, and many other legends of the 1950s – 1970s. There are some off-kilter snippets of her later years, having fun in a circus. She was, by turns, cheeky (she lied about her age to be accepted in the Conservatoire de Athens), elegant, sophisticated, well-spoken and perseverant. “When you are nice to me, I smile,” she said, maintaining poise while surrounded by a swarm of parasite reporters. Callas also happened to be slender, shattering (among many others) the stereotype that all opera singers are, well, robust. True vocal chops may come from the gut, but the gut doesn’t need pork chops to sing.
Director Tom Volf lets the opera bits play out, sometimes for what seems like their entirety, which makes for a lengthy two-hour running time, especially for a doc that’s all historical footage, set in chronological order. Is Wolf really a director, or should Janice Jones, the film’s editor, get most of the credit? And if directing an editor is your sole duty, does that really qualify you as a film director? I know Volf must have spent an enormous amount of time compiling this footage; he wrote books about Callas, so he clearly knows a good deal about the singer. What he does here is attempt to communicate her essence, without the intrusion of contemporary interviews, visuals or digital trickery, and while admirable, it also has the opposite effect, rendering the film somewhat soulless, a series of nostalgic, sometimes beautiful footage without a human voice to guide it.
Admittedly, at times, it achieves an almost hypnotic effect, with the constant music soundtrack playing continuously to her life, unraveling in glamorous shots, punctuated intermittently by candid interviews with the subject, but then it also verges on an elaborate, albeit well-made student project. Too little is actually revealed about Callas, a painting painted in the broadest of strokes, a visual static poem. Good thing Callas’ voice is mesmerizing enough, her performances enthralling enough, her interviews eloquent enough to infuse the documentary with enough urgency for it to work, if barely. As an extended vignette, a loving and one-sided tribute to the artist, it’s not half bad. As an insightful doc that probes all facets of a complicates artist’s life, it sputters instead of belting it out.
In select theaters Friday, November 30th
